Brain Freeze
by FutureMrsStabler
Summary: An unexpected blast from his past throws John into a world of danger that threatens to undo his entire existence and Sherlock must choose between betraying him and joining him in order to save John's life.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)**

For a moment, John stood frozen. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Couldn't _think_.

Then he ran. He ran harder than he ever had before in his entire life.

Straight out of the alley and across the middle of the street. Cars screeched and honked, a few narrowly avoiding him. He didn't blink. Continued on, flying down street corners and across sidewalks. His heart was bursting in his chest and he felt like he might have a heart attack. It was so dark that he could barely see in front of him and he worried that he might be going the entirely wrong direction.

But he still didn't stop.

* * *

It was a rare event when Sherlock Holmes actually slept. Not as rare as John liked to exaggerate it to be, but he certainly never shut down in a normal pattern like most of society did. He was perfectly fine going days without sleep. It wasn't like it was something out of the ordinary for him…he had been since practically childhood. He had never understood why everyone in his life always seemed to make it out to be such a big deal out of it. He had survived perfectly well up until then, hadn't he?

Still, as much as he loathed it, Sherlock's body unfortunately would never be at the same speed as his intellectual ability no matter how hard he tried to condition it to be. So, yes, he did eventually have to sleep.

That night was one such occasion. He had just finished a 3-day stint without sleeping, devoting the energy instead to solving what John had jokingly titled "The Case of the Dumped Detective." Sherlock failed to see the humor in it….he certainly hadn't _intended_ to fall ass over heels into that full garbage bin he had been standing on while examining fingerprints on a window ledge above it. He still didn't understand why everyone down at the Yard only talked about _that _aspect of the investigation instead of the brilliant leap of logic it had taken him to solve the case.

The point was, he was sleeping. Blissfully. Dead to the world and completely devoid of concern about it or anything in it and had been that way for several hours.

And then the elephant came crashing through the front door of the flat.

Seriously. He could think of no better explanation for the explosion of noise that rocketed him out of sleep and into the world of the living like a cannon shot. He bolted upright, hearing crashes and heavy stomps through the bedroom door.

The very next thought in his mind was an incredulous "_seriously?" _Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock slid his feet to the floor and grabbed the gun he kept stashed under his mattress. Someone was actually stupid enough to try and break into the flat of _Sherlock Holmes_?

He pushed open the bedroom door and aimed.

It was also a rare event when Sherlock Holmes was shocked by something. As he immediately lowered the weapon, he had to admit to himself that's exactly what he was and could for a moment only gape.

Several hours ago he had watched John practically fall asleep in his chair, tell him goodnight, and walk upstairs in sweats. He had heard John wind his alarm clock exactly six times to wake him the next morning and climb into bed, mattress springs squeaking like usual above the sitting room.

At that moment, the very same man that should have been for all intents and purposes snoring and drooling into his pillow was thundering through the sitting room like the devil was on his heels, his pupils blown wide and wheezing in breaths.

"Fuck," he was gasping. "Fucking mother fucking _fuck_!"

He barreled across the room, right past Sherlock without seeming to even notice him, and over to the kitchen window to look out of it. Sherlock took in the dark jeans, work boots, and hooded sweatshirt John was wearing, none of which he had seen before.

John whipped back around and across the room again, this time to the opposite windows. "Jesus, Mary and _Christ_," he went on breathlessly. He lifted one of the curtains and looked out, eyes roaming around outside wildly.

He turned to the side and bowed his head, arm outstretched to the wall and still holding the curtain, and almost hyperventilated as he breathed. Sherlock's breath caught when he saw a giant gaping tear at the left side of John's sweatshirt stained dark with blood.

"John," he said sharply. He set the gun down on the floor almost as an afterthought, closing the distance between them in a few giant strides. He gripped the man's shoulder, rougher than necessary without realizing it in his haste. "What in the-"

"Fuck!" John yelled, turning his head to look at Sherlock. Sherlock nearly choked in surprise, the man's face was so ghostly white. With alarming strength, John all of the sudden was gripping his arm and dragging him back toward the foyer. "Get away, _fuck_, get the fuck away from the window!"

He started hyperventilating again. He was still gripping Sherlock's arm and _Jesus_, Sherlock realized John was _shaking_, he was shaking like he had lost control of his synapses and that was enough. Sherlock pulled his arm out of John's vice hold and crowded the other man's space, reaching out to clamp both hands on John's shoulders to force him still.

"John!" he practically barked. His friend's eyes flew to his like they had a mind of their own and Sherlock was horrified to see the absolute bleakness in them. A million questions whirled in his head but only one made it out. "What the _hell_ is going on?"

John's hands flew down to grip both of his arms and Sherlock could feel him clinging, clinging to him like he was terrified of falling off his feet. He gasped and wheezed and swallowed continuously as if holding back puke.

"Sherlock," John choked, holding on for dear life. "Sherlock-"

His face twisted for one horrible moment like he was about to burst into tears and all of the sudden he looked like a terrified little boy that Sherlock didn't recognize. Sherlock felt himself grow cold with abrupt dread as he felt the shoulders under his hands start shaking again.

"I killed someone," John gasped out. He started wheezing again in panic. "Sherlock….I just _fucking _killed someone!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)**

**Four Days Earlier**

John signed his name on the last of the prescriptions he had written out and then put the pad back into his desk drawer. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his back with a small groan.

His phone chimed from his pocket. He reached for it and read the message.

**CRIME SCENE. ABBOTSLEIGH ROAD. MEET ME IN 10 MINS. SH**

He winced, checking his watch. God, it was already 6:30…he'd been there at the surgery for 11 hours. Someone had called out in the afternoon and the place had been unusually crowded with patients. He had volunteered to stay until it calmed down and then gotten too caught up in what he was doing to realize the time.

John texted back a reply. He began gathering his jacket and shoulder bag.

**JUST FINISHED 11 HOUR SHIFT. TIRED AND HUNGRY. COUNT ME OUT OF THIS ONE. JW**

He turned off the light and locked his office door.

Ella, a pretty young receptionist that had just recently been hired, smiled at him as he passed. "Goodnight, Dr. Watson."

His phone chimed again. He flashed her a charming grin.

"Ella," he said teasingly as he pulled the mobile back out. "How many times have I asked you to call me John?"

**VICTIM IS RETIRED ARMY. HAS EXTENSIVE FIREARM COLLECTION IN ROOM ABOVE CRIME SCENE. SH**

John's heart immediately began pounding in excitement even as a groan of dismay passed his lips. Damn his weakness for military weapons! And damn Sherlock for exploiting it…the man _knew _how much he could never resist an opportunity to drool over them. He didn't even hear Ella's reply as he quickly texted back.

**BE THERE IN 5. JW**

* * *

Sherlock grinned when he saw how quickly John answered his text. He'd had a feeling that would get his friend's attention. He schooled his features when he turned back around.

"John's on his way," he said to Lestrade. "He should be able to give us a more…._accurate_ cause of death than some others here have."

He gave Anderson a pointed stare when he said that. Anderson sneered at him, recognizing an insult when he heard one.

"It doesn't take a bloody _doctor_ to see an obvious gunshot wound to the back of the head," Anderson said, affronted.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Anderson. "It doesn't take a _genius_ either," he replied smugly, "and yet Lestrade still called me. So looks like there's something else going on that you lot haven't seen." He turned toward Lestrade. "Where's the body?"

* * *

"Can't go any further, mate." The driver of the cab turned to look back at John with an expression on his face that said he thought John was an idiot. "See the sirens? Street's blocked."

John bit back a scathing reply. He had already told the man three timesthat he was trying to get _to_ the sirens but the guy didn't seem to get it.

John pulled some money from his jeans pocket. "Fine," he said, handing it up to the driver. "That's fine…I'll get out here. Thanks."

He climbed out with a roll of his eyes and made his way past the throng of onlookers trying to snoop their way into finding out what was going on. An officer let him through and he ducked under the crime scene tape, looking around for Sherlock.

Hearing raised voices to his left made his brow arch.

"Alright, alright…spare us the dog and pony show and just get bloody on with it, would you?"

He grimaced. _Found him. _He made his way to the garage.

* * *

Sherlock was crouched over the body, trying to ignore the idiotic ramblings around him and not having much success. When his concentration was interrupted for the fourth time in so many minutes, he snapped his head up with a frustrated growl.

"For the love of-!" he began angrily. He caught sight of John walking in behind Donovan's back. His features unconsciously relaxed. "Finally…keep these intellectual peons occupied, will you John? Tell them about some new medical procedure or something."

Lestrade turned to see John join them. The doctor gave him an incredulous look. Lestrade gave him a long-suffering one in return and shook his head.

"What?" John asked, bewildered. Anderson was looking at him in disgust. Sherlock glanced at him smugly as he stepped closer to the body. "What are you on about?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said curtly. He turned his attention back to the body. "Never mind. I'll be done in a moment, John, and then we can go."

Lestrade almost had to laugh at the look that came over John's face. "What?" he repeated, his voice incredulous. "_You _called _me_ here, Sherlock." Fatigue and hunger was making him irritable and he knew it showed. "You better bloody well _need_ me here or else-"

"Yes." Sherlock cut him off smoothly, looking back up at him. "I do need you here." He held John's eyes. "I need you to go look upstairs for more evidence."

He raised his eyebrows slightly. John stared at him for a moment, unsure if the man was implying what he thought.

"Now hold just a moment," Lestrade said. Sherlock's face hardened as he looked at the Detective Inspector. "No one mentioned anything about any more evidence."

"I only just now thought about it," Sherlock replied smoothly. "No need for everyone to go up there…if John finds anything, he'll let us know."

He looked back at John. "Upstairs," he repeated. "Third room on your left."

His eyes twinkled slyly. John's lips curved into a smile of delight that he quickly tamed. He nodded.

"Sure thing," he said.

Le

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock had finished his examinations and subsequent theory of how the man had been killed.

"So," he went on, "you're going to be looking for three assailants, one of whom is ambidextrous, and all of whom have purchased new shoes in the past week." He nodded, as if that were the answer to every question known to police work, and walked toward the door to the house. He opened it and called inside. "John!"

Lestrade saw his officers giving him looks of confusion. He shook his head in long-suffering annoyance.

"John!" Sherlock called again, louder. "Come on!"

Footsteps thundered above them down the stairwell. John appeared a moment later looking like a kid who had just raided a candy store. Sherlock headed out of the garage and he followed quickly.

"Hey," Lestrade called, after a thought occurred to him. "John-" The doctor paused and looked back at him in slight surprise. Lestrade spread his hands questioningly. "What about the evidence upstairs?"

John looked like he was holding back laughter. "Oh-" He shook his head, shooting a weird look at Sherlock that Lestrade couldn't interpret. "Um…no, sorry. Nothing." He cleared his throat, an amused smile slipping out. "Night."

Lestrade watched the pair go. _Total nutters, both of them. It must be contagious._

* * *

"Holy _Shit_!"

They were barely out of earshot when John practically exploded with glee next to him.

"Absolutely brilliant, my God!" he chattered excitedly. "This guy has a 1976 British L7 machine gun, a 1977 Russian AK-63 assault rifle, _two _1978 Soviet GP-25 grenade launchers-"

Sherlock bit back a grin and concentrated on finding a cab. John kept nattering like he couldn't catch his breath fast enough between sentences.

"And _ammo_, oh, my _God_," he gushed on. "Cases of it, more than I've ever seen in my life! _Shit_, I need to make it my life goal to have a collection like that!"

He was so preoccupied with thinking about what he had seen that he didn't even realize Sherlock had stopped walking and was several paces behind him.

"Are you planning to walk all the way home?"

John started and looked around. He saw Sherlock at the curb a few feet behind him, holding open the door to a waiting cab preparing to get inside. Flushing with slight embarrassment, John strode back and slid in after him.

Sherlock watched John lean his head back and sigh contentedly. "Amazing," he said. "What are the chances that I would ever get to see…" He abruptly trailed off, realizing something. "Hold on. You-"

John looked accusingly at Sherlock. The other man was pretending not to notice, which meant that of course he knew all along what John was thinking.

"You _didn't _need my help," John went on. "I did absolutely nothing at that damn crime scene. You just called me there to-"He stopped and let the thought wash over him. "Explore possibly the most amazing bloody weapons room I've ever seen in my life."

John could see Sherlock trying not to smile as he looked out the window. His face split into a wide grin of his own.

"Want to get a curry?" he offered by way of thanks. "I'm buying."

* * *

**Three Days Earlier**

It had been raining all day and John was going stir-crazy. He didn't have any shifts at the clinic for two days and there had been no more cases to occupy Sherlock, meaning that the flat had been turned into a full-scale laboratory as the man grew more and more bored. The laundry that he had set out by the door so that he would remember to take it to the cleaner had mysteriously disappeared, the can of shaving cream that had been in his bathroom that morning was suddenly next to Sherlock's beakers, and he'd had to relinquish most of his food from inside of their refrigerator without warning when something gelatinous and _oozing _had started creeping out from behind the closed door.

So the arrival of Lestrade unannounced that evening was welcomed by both of them. Sherlock practically pounced on the man before he had even said hello.

"You've got a case?" he asked eagerly.

"No," Lestrade said.

Sherlock visibly sagged and turned back to his table of chemicals with a pout. John rolled his eyes, getting up from his chair quickly to greet the Detective Inspector.

"Donovan's birthday was last week," Lestrade said. "A bunch of us are going down to the pub tonight for a late celebration. You boys fancy coming along?"

"Not interested," Sherlock said before John could open his mouth.

John glared at Sherlock's back. "_He's _not," he said to Lestrade. "I'll come. Sounds fun."

Lestrade smiled, pleased. "Great," he said. "I'm taking a cab from here if you want to share."

John nodded. "Let me go get my coat," he said. "Give me two seconds."

On their way out of the flat, John asked Sherlock one more time if he wanted to come along. Sherlock just sniffed and declined.

Lestrade grinned as a cab pulled up to them. "Better off anyway," he said. "Holmes has always been a grumpy drunk."

John laughed, sliding inside.

* * *

Most of the Yarders had gathered down at the pub by the time they got there and it didn't take long for the drinks to start flowing. John found himself growing buzzed and more relaxed as time went on. Soon he was entertaining the people who had never seen him outside of a doctor-sidekick-ordinary persona by kicking their butts at drinking contests and obliterating them at pub trivia.

After about an hour, he excused himself and headed for the men's loo. He was halfway across the room when a man stumbled into his path with a beer bottle in both hands and crashed right into him.

"Shit!" John yelped as beer sloshed all down his shirt and onto his shoes.

"Damn it!" the other man yelled angrily when he dropped one of the beers, sending the bottle crashing to the floor. He looked at John with blazing eyes. "Why don't you fucking-"

They both stopped abruptly. The man looked at John with wide eyes. John looked back at him in astonishment.

"Watson?" the man asked in amazement.

John grinned madly, eyes lighting up. "Dex!" he yelled excitedly. "Holy _Shit_-!"

"Fuck me!" Benjamin "Dex" Dexter whooped with glee and wrapped his former comrade into a huge bear grip, lifting him right up off the ground. "Captain 'Frogman' as I live and breathe, no fucking way!"

John laughed wildly and punched the man in the arm. "Jesus, Dex!" he groaned when the man crushed his ribs as he set him back down.

"How the hell are you, Frogman?" Dexter asked. He eyed John up and down. "Still as ugly as you always were, I see."

John grinned. "That's not what your sister said last time I saw her," he said slyly.

The other man glared at him playfully. Then he looked down at his beer bottle. "Looks like you owe me a drink," he said.

"_I _owe you a drink?" John said in mock outrage. "You're the one who bumped into me, you clumsy fuck!" Dexter grinned. John threw an arm around his shoulders with a wide smile. "Come on. Let me introduce you to some of my friends."

* * *

Lestrade was flabbergasted when John returned to the table looking like he had just won the lottery and practically shoved a random stranger right into the center of their circle, introducing him as "Captain Ben Dexter" and proclaiming him to be the "hands-down second best God-damn sharpshooter in the entire fucking British Army" outside of himself. Dexter replied to the remark with one of his own, saying that he would be _first _if "Frogman hadn't slept with the sisters of every commanding officer and weaseled it away" from him.

That was followed by several moments of raucous laughing and stinging barbs thrown between the two men involving strange nicknames and acronyms that no one understood. The Yarders stared at them like they were insane until "Dex" declared that he had to buy everyone a drink and see if they knew what kind of shit Watson used to get into before they knew him.

They were on their third round and Donovan was nearly shrieking with laughter at the latest anecdote Dex was ribbing him before John suddenly realized he had never made it to the bathroom earlier. He stood up, warned Dex not to "fuck with my drink", and walked toward the restroom again.

Dex had to stop his current story in order to inform the group around him what John meant by the remark. They all burst out laughing at John when he returned and John glared at Dex, realizing the man had told them what he had meant. So of _course_ John had to retaliate with one of his own stories.

Soon the hours had turned into several and several of the Yarders realized they were due to work in the morning. They all began separating. Lestrade offered to share a cab home with John and his friend. John was about to accept when Dex beat him to it.

"Let's just walk," Dex said. "You're not that drunk, Frogman, are you?"

"You know," Lestrade said to John, grinning, "you're not going to be able to come back down to the Yard until you tell us why he calls you that, right?"

Dex smiled wickedly and John gave him a warning glare. "Don't even think about it," he said. "I'm nowhere _near_ drunk enough for that one."

The pair set off down the road and began catching up. They hadn't seen each other in nearly 5 years but their conversation was easy and flowing, as if they'd never stopped. Dex told John that he had gotten a job with a foreign oil supplier and was in town visiting family for the week. He was staying at a hotel not far from Baker Street, much to John's delight.

After a few minutes of chatting, Dex reached into his pocket for his cell phone and looked at the screen. John was confused when he abruptly turned off of the path they were on as John was in the middle of a sentence.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Shortcut," Dex said, sliding his phone back into his jeans.

John watched, perplexed, as Dex began heading down a nearby alley. He jogged to keep up. "Hey," he said, grinning. "You do know the hotel is _that_ way, right?" He pointed back to the direction they had been going. "I thought you said you weren't that drunk!"

Dexter had gone silent. Ahead of them, a man in a red baseball cap came into view, walking with his head down. John looked at him, bewildered, as he started walking faster.

"What are you _doing_?" he asked, quickening his pace.

The other man glanced at him but didn't reply. In two long strides, he had suddenly left John's side, hand going down to lift the shirt away from his body. He got up right on the man's heels and pulled out a long, jagged knife.

John froze in place, his breath stuttering out of his lungs like he'd just been punched.

Before he could get his breath back, Dexter had reached forward to grab the man's head and slit his throat in one smooth swipe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)**

**Thank you to everyone following! If you have time, drop a review. I'm an addict and they are my drug of choice.**

John watched the man slump to the ground. Blood had already pooled in a huge puddle under his body.

Instinct to run and help the man battled with the shock holding him immobile.

Dexter wiped the knife clean on the inside of his shirt. Then he slipped it back into the waistband of his pants as smoothly as if it were nothing more than loose change he had picked up. He looked over at John.

"So…we going or what?" he asked.

John could only gape in horror. He couldn't take his eyes off of the body in front of them. He still couldn't process what had just happened.

"Dex-" he croaked. He could barely speak. It felt like his throat was paralyzed. "What-?" The words dried up. Dexter looked at him for a minute and a look of slight annoyance crossed his face. He began walking right past John without saying anything. John tried again. "_Jesus..._what-?"

Once again, the words caught. But this time it was because of the shadows he suddenly saw approaching from the alley beside them.

Four men were walking towards them. All of them were rather…._meaty_ and each had at least five inches on John. And probably twenty pounds. And probably wouldn't mind a fight.

John swallowed hard.

They were all looking menacingly at him, like he was their personal enemy. He had never seen any of them before. He squared his shoulders defensively without realizing it.

Then one of them hitched up his coat and John realized the man had a gun on him.

His heart began to race even harder.

Before he could react, Dexter suddenly spoke lazily from behind him.

"It's cool, guys," he said. "He's with us."

John didn't think anything else could shock him. But hearing Dexter's words certainly did. He slid his eyes towards Dexter uncertainly for a moment. Then they went right back to the one with the gun while still keeping the others in his vision too.

The men continued to stare at John distrustfully. One of them began walking closer toward him and he tensed instinctively. But then he walked right past him. The other three stood where they were and kept right on burning into John with their stares.

Dexter stepped back slightly as the man approached the body. He looked at it for a minute and then nodded. The other men turned back toward the alley and the man followed after them, walking past John again without looking at him that time.

John stared after them for a minute before finding his voice. "Dex…"

Dex cut him off curtly. "Come on," he said, heading past John in the direction of the alley too. He paused after a moment when he realized John wasn't following and looked back. His voice hardened. "John. **Now**."

John's face obviously showed what he was thinking because he didn't get a chance to say anything further before Dexter strode back toward him and gripped his arm harshly. Startled, John ripped out of his hold angrily.

"Get off me," he said warningly.

Dexter's face twisted angrily. He got right up in John's face and started shoving against him with his chest. Instinctively, John's face hardened and he began crowding back against Dexter.

"What the **fuck**," John said. ""Get the hell out of my face, Dexter! What are you doing?"

"Look, damn it," Dexter hissed. "You stay here and all the cops are going to see is a fucking dead body with you next to it. What do you think they're going to do? Let you walk away scotch fucking free?"

John clenched his teeth. But he couldn't stop the flutter of anxiety that crept into his belly.

"You do whatever the hell you want," Dexter went on, "but I'm getting the fuck out of here."

He backed away and began walking briskly down the alley in the same direction the others had. J

John watched him go. Then he swallowed hard. He looked back at the body and then around him. The street was dark and deserted. There wasn't another soul around anywhere.

_No witnesses_, John's subconscious whispered to him dreadfully. **_Fuck_**_, what if he's right? _

Before he could think about it, he was running down the alley after Dexter. "Wait up," he called.

* * *

By unspoken agreement, neither of them said a word to each other as John followed a few paces behind Dexter in the dark. John's eyes kept darting around and behind him every few seconds, paranoid that they were being followed.

Ten minutes or so into their silent trek, Dexter veered off toward a section of dilapidated buildings that John vaguely remembered as being businesses once upon a time. They went past three of them before Dexter abruptly stopped and reached up to pull down a set of fire escape stairs attached to a fourth.

He glanced at John, gesturing upward with a silent jerk of his head, and began climbing. John eyed the stairs warily. The whole situation had started to become surreal.

Nevertheless, he looked around instinctively again and then reached up to grasp the first rung.

* * *

He followed Dexter up to the third story and then the other man ducked into an open window. John pushed through after him, the stomp of his feet echoing when he jumped off the inside sill to the floor.

A dingy ceiling light cast a murky yellow tinge over the room they were in. John squinted uncomfortably and looked around. There were a couple of dirty couches positioned near a small television in one corner. A dingy refrigerator stood near the far wall. Judging from the cans scattered along seemingly every spare inch of concrete floor in the room, he figured it was probably full of nothing but beer.

John's body tensed reflexively again when his gaze landed on a small wooden table on the other side of the room. The men from the alley were sitting around it and Dexter was pulling up a chair too.

"Hey," Dexter said, gesturing to him to join them.

He tried to keep himself as relaxed and nonchalant as possible as he came over. He didn't think he was doing a very good job, though. There weren't any more chairs, so John leaned against the table in attempt to act casual.

He ended up directly across from the biggest of the strange group of men. The man was staring at him coldly like he was a personal enemy. John tried to avoid his gaze, attempting to catch Dexter's eye to find out what the hell was going on, but the man didn't waste a moment in getting right to the point.

"Nobody said anything about turning this into a fucking party," he said, glaring at John. "What the hell is this maggot asshole doing here?"

John's blood boiled angrily. He narrowed his eyes challengingly at the man. Dexter held up a hand quickly, sensing John about to bite out a scathing reply.

"Chill, Z," Dexter said calmly. "It's fine. I told you…he's cool."

The man, "Z" as Dex called him, only cut into John harder with his eyes and sneered. "And **I'm **telling **you**," he said, addressing Dexter as if John wasn't even there. "Make damn sure he keeps his fucking mouth shut and knows what'll happen if he **doesn't**."

"Look, we're all on the same side here," Dex bit out impatiently as he watched John's fists start to clench. "We need to get on with this before we run out of time."

It was then that John noticed several black and white photographs spread over the table near the other men.

"Get on with what?" he asked, unable to stop from bursting out anymore. He looked at Dexter incredulously. "Dexter, what the **hell** is going on here? Who was that guy back there? You just fucking slit a man's throat, **Jesus-**!" He was getting more and more anxious with every breath.

The man sitting next to Dexter shook his head. "**Wrong**," he said empathetically.

The disgusted expression he had aimed at John made it clear what he thought of the little outburst. It surprised John enough to render him momentarily speechless.

Dexter took the opportunity. He turned toward John and picked up one of the photographs near him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. What I **did **was get rid of a scum fuck murderer that the fucking **cops** let walk the streets." John didn't recognize the man in the photo. It was obvious from his expression. Dexter looked at him like he was an idiot and shook the photograph pointedly. "That's him. Right here. Killed a man in broad fucking daylight and never even got arrested. Cops said there wasn't enough evidence."

John looked at the photo and back in disbelief. Dexter grabbed another.

"This guy," he went on. "Robs a woman in a grocery store parking lot and then shoots her in the head. He gets some rich lawyer to defend him in court and the judge lets him go." He nodded at the man sitting next to him. "Eli did him beautifully…slipped into the guy's hotel room while he was sleeping. Guy never even saw it coming. _Bam!_" He mimed shooting a gun with his fingers and grinned.

A cold chill snaked into John's stomach as he absorbed what Dexter was saying.

"All of them," Dexter went on, fanning photos in one hand as if brandishing playing cards. "Every single one of these fuckers….walked around like they owned the fucking city." He grinned at the other men around them. "Until they met us."

John looked around the table at them all smiling like they knew some private joke. He felt sick.

"Are you…are you **listening** to yourself, Dexter?" He couldn't keep the slightly hysterical edge from his voice. "Christ! You're talking about vigilante justice? What the fuck, man…are you completely **deranged**?"

"Hey, fuck you!" The man at the end furthest from John spoke harshly, almost before he had even finished. "Nobody here asked for your opinion. You don't know fuck all about anything." He looked at Dexter and shook his head. "Seriously….what the hell is he even doing here?"

"Shut up, Chad," Dexter said in annoyance. He didn't even look at the guy. His attention remained on John. "It's not crazy, John. Think about it."

His eyes were positively glowing with adrenaline.

"How many times have you seen scumbags working the system and thought about wanting them dead? Rapists. Murderers. You name it…fucking sons of bitches who get away with all these vicious crimes and no one punishes them for it." He raised an eyebrow. "We're doing what the entire world wants to do but is too chickenshit to go through with it. We're not vigilantes. We're **heroes**. Not just anybody can do what we do."

Someone's phone went off abruptly. John's head was spinning.

"Z" reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Shit, I've got to go," he said. He stood up, addressing the others in a way that seemed familiar to them. "Tomorrow night. Bring the supplies."

Chad and the other man nodded at him. "Z" looked at Dexter, nodded, and threw a sneer towards John before walking toward the window. John watched him, feeling like he was going a bit insane seeing "Z" push out and climb out like it was the most normal thing in the world to be scaling the wall of a building instead of using the door.

The two others slapped hands with Dexter and followed "Z" without another word. Dexter began gathering up the photographs and tucking them into his coat pocket. His shirt rode up when he moved his arm to expose the knife he had used on the man earlier tucked handle side up in his waistband.

"Dex, what is this?" Now that the others were gone, John allowed himself the freak out that he knew was bubbling up. He threw his arms out incredulously. "Are you serious right now? You do realize how much fucking **shit **you're getting yourself into, right?"

Dexter's face twisted. "You know what, Watson?" he said angrily. "You're really starting to piss me off." He stalked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, popping the top. "Where the hell do you get off acting all self-righteous and shit?" He gulped beer between breaths. "I thought you'd be **cool**, cool like we used to be. What happened to you, man? You're like this whole different person now."

"Me?" John shook his head. "**I'm **different? You just spent all this time telling me that you and your friends go around **killing **people to get your rocks off! Don't fucking talk to me about being a different person, Dex...how can you be okay with this? After all that shit we went through together in the army, how could you-?"

"That's it! That's my fucking point!" Dexter exploded. He spilled half of his beer in his enthusiasm pointing at John. "You should get it more than anyone. You were there, too." His hand began clenching angrily around the can he held. "You saw the way those Taliban **fucks** treated people. Treated **us**. You're telling me you can't still hear the screams in your head of that little girl they brought to our camp and raped that one night? You don't think about that day they killed three of our guys and dragged their bodies behind their horses in front of a parade?"

An unconscious shudder ran up John's spine from the memories he had worked hard to store away from the civilian world.

Dexter threw the empty can on the floor. "**Don't **sit here and tell me that you wouldn't have chopped the balls off of any one of them and hacked their bodies into pieces if you'd been given half a chance," he said severely. "I know you, John. I **know** you thought about it."

John didn't say a word. He couldn't look Dexter in the eye.

"That's why, people like us?" he went on. "We have to do this. We're born to do this. It's why we never feel completely at ease in civilian life. Why we never can seem to get the trigger itch out of our hands." He spoke with such conviction that John was forced to look at him again. "The world knows we're not like them. We're soldiers. It doesn't matter where we are, they can never take that part of us away."

Without warning, Dexter strode to the window and began climbing out, leaving John standing in the middle of the room looking after him.

"You can walk out of here now and never think about this again," Dexter said. "If you try to go to the cops I guarantee you we'll be gone before you could even get our descriptions out." He pinned John with a hard stare. "You saw what happened out there tonight and you went with me anyway. I know deep down, you have to miss the excitement of being a soldier even if you don't want to admit it. Come with us and you'll get it back. I promise you that."

He glanced down. "Just think about it," he urged. He began climbing down. "Later, 'Frogman.'" He grinned cheekily, looking every bit the cocky kid he had been in the service, and disappeared from sight.

John blew out a deep breath. He slowly made his way to the window and looked down. Dexter seemed to have vanished in seconds because he was nowhere in sight and the street was empty.

He quickly climbed back down to the ground and looked around again. He was still terribly paranoid, convinced that at any moment someone was going to materialize out of a nearby building to accuse him of trespassing or murder or-

He quickly cut off the train of thought. He checked his watch, cursed when he realized it was past midnight, and hurried quickly in the direction of the main road.

* * *

By some miracle he managed to find a cab not too long after he was back in the midst of town. The driver looked at him a bit oddly, which he tried not to dwell on and eased his mind by telling himself he was probably still a little drunk and might smell like the bar.

Once he got home, he automatically started in the direction of the sitting room. But he paused right before getting to the door. He knew from the light he'd seen in the window that Sherlock was still awake. He didn't feel like attempting to explain where he been if his flatmate were to ask. Never mind the fact that he was still so keyed up that he could hardly keep still.

So he bypassed the sitting room and went straight up to his bedroom. He didn't usually shut the door when he went to bed.

He did that night.

He tried to sleep but ended up just laying there in the dark for hours. He couldn't keep Dexter's words out of his head and it was driving him crazy.

_"I know you, John. I __**know**__ you've thought about it."_

_"You saw what happened out there tonight and you went with me anyway."_

_"You should get it more than anyone. You were there, too."_

John knew that logically, the very first thing he should have done after he saw that man die was get the hell away from Dexter and go straight to the police. A big part of him was screaming that he should go to the police right then and tell them everything that he had heard that night too. The longer he waited, the more trouble was going to happen. He could feel it.

But, God help him….God help him, there was another part of him that had started positively **bursting **with excited energy at the thought of his days in Afghanistan. The memory of the weapon in his hands. The nervous anticipation during a night time drill.

The memories that Dexter had brought back came through his mind again and made him tense. He thought about the seemingly endless number of enemy forces and imagined himself in front of one, pressing his gun against the forehead.

John's eyes popped open in shock when he realized he had actually become hard.

"Shit," he hissed. He groaned and punched his pillow. "Shit!"

_What the hell is wrong with you, damn it?! Get those thoughts out of your head. __**Now**__._

But try as he might, he couldn't get Dexter's voice out of his head. All night long as he lay there trying to fall asleep, he kept hearing it and turning the words over in his head.

* * *

The next day went by in a surprising blur at work. John was grateful for the monotony of seeing patients and prescribing medicine, as it gave him an excuse to think about something other than the night before.

He hadn't faced Sherlock that morning, choosing instead to get dressed and head straight to the hospital. He wasn't sure exactly why he was leery of seeing his flatmate. He knew that in all likelihood, Sherlock had been in the midst of one of those strange experiments or whatever that he tended to do at night and hadn't even noticed when he had come home the night before. And even if he had, it wasn't like the man was his father and demanded he explain every move he made. Most of the time they didn't even talk to each other in the mornings past the usual greeting and random conversation if they weren't working on a case.

He couldn't help the leeriness, though, which is why he had decided to give himself some space that morning.

Being around the familiar environment and comforting motions of work did wonders for his peace of mind. By the end of his shift, he was feeling back to normal. He texted Sherlock as he slipped on his jacket, asking if he felt like ordering in Chinese for dinner.

"Excuse me…Doctor Watson?"

He looked up to see Ella smiling shyly at him from the doorway. He smiled back but looked at her with mock sternness until she laughed softly.

"Sorry," she amended. "I mean, **John**."

He smiled brilliantly at her. "Now was that so hard?" he teased.

"I'm sorry, I know you're about to get off," she said apologetically. "But someone slipped in right as I was shutting the door and practically begged to see a doctor. Do you mind?"

He shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "Send them back."

Her face lit up in a pretty grin. "Thank you," she said, shutting his office door.

John turned around and opened his filing cabinet. He began thumbing through one of the drawers when he heard a knock on the door.

"Come in," he called with his back still turned. He located a blank file and turned around again. "How can I-?"

Before he could blink, there was someone in a dark hooded coat right up in his face and pushing him. He ended up slamming against the filing cabinet in shock before he could react and then there was a knife at his throat.

He wisely kept his mouth shut.

The person pulled down the hood with one hand and when John saw his face, his own tightened defensively. It was one of the men that had been with Dexter the night before. _Chad_, his mind supplied after a minute.

"I don't give a fuck who you are," Chad growled lowly. He held the knife steady, pressing hard enough against the skin that John felt a small trickle of blood running down his neck. "You open your mouth to **anyone** about us, I'll cut your fucking tongue out. You got me?"

John glared at him but obediently nodded. Chad pushed him again threateningly, withdrawing the knife.

"We find everyone," he warned as he strode back toward the door. "You double cross us, there won't be a hole in this world you can hide where we won't find you. You can count on that."

Then he was gone, taking off down the hallway. John dimly heard the surprised shout of Ella as he burst through the doors of the clinic and back into the night.

Ella's heels clipped loudly as she rushed back to his office. John instinctively clapped a hand quickly over his neck to hide the knife mark.

"What was that about?" she asked, looking at him wide-eyed.

He shook his head as nonchalantly as he could. "Some street addict," he said. "We get those sometimes….just want as many drugs as they can. Nothing to worry about. They always bolt when you threaten to call the cops."

He tried to smile reassuringly at her but knew he wasn't quite succeeding. She was looking at him strangely.

"Are you alright?" she asked in concern.

John realized she was staring at him holding his neck. He quickly rubbed it and faked a cough.

"Oh, yeah," he said. He coughed again. "Just feel like I might be getting a cold."

Once she left the office he blew out a shaky breath. He left the hospital quickly and got a cab, looking over his shoulder every other minute.

When he arrived back home, he made to go straight up to his room but was startled by Sherlock barging out of the sitting room as he was passing it. He jumped slightly and tried to look normal.

"Did you get my text?" Sherlock said. He was talking a mile a minute, the way he tended to do when he got a new case. "Forget the Chinese; we can stop on our way back if you're still hungry. Lestrade said…"

John unconsciously tuned him out, grateful for the distraction that would keep him from having to go back to his room alone and be tortured by his thoughts again.

"What happened to your neck?"

John's world zoomed back into focus in a second.

Sherlock was staring at his throat with an odd expression on his face. He looked into John's eyes intently. John tried not to squirm as his fingers flew nervously up to touch the mark.

"What?" He tried to act like he didn't know what Sherlock was talking about. "Oh...just nicked myself shaving." He grinned forcefully. "Come on, let's go!"

John turned around fast and went down the stairs ahead of his flatmate. He knew he wouldn't have been able to withstand the penetrating stare for much longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)**

**Thank you to everyone following! If you have time, drop a review. I'm an addict and they are my drug of choice.**

When they arrived at the crime scene, the officers there told Sherlock that Lestrade was stuck in traffic and to wait until he arrived before doing anything. Sherlock just stared at them for a long few moments before walking right underneath the tape. John almost laughed at his expression.

It was chillier out there than he'd first anticipated. He paused to pull on his leather gloves.

"I know."

A voice droned quietly right above his right ear. It startled the hell out of him and he jumped about three feet in the air. He whipped around fast.

Lestrade was scrutinizing him intently. The DI had seemingly appeared out of thin air and was staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"I **know**, John," Lestrade repeated intently.

John's stomach abruptly fell to his feet.

_Shit, oh shit! _His mind raced in panic. _Ok, think, Watson. Don't freak out…alibi. Think of an alibi first._

"You…know?" John said, hating the way his voice sounded so nervous.

Lestrade nodded.

"I know why your Army mate calls you 'Frogman!'" he asserted. "I figured it out." He grinned. "It's because you've got huge feet, isn't it?"

John was so relieved that he almost stuttered. He let out an awkward laugh that he hoped didn't sound as forced as it felt.

"Oh…um, yep," he said, trying to smile. "Yeah, that's-that's it. You figured it out."

Lestrade clapped him genially on the shoulder and went past him. "Alright, I'm here!" he called out loudly as he lifted the crime scene tape. "Let's make sure the only bloodshed comes from the dead here, yeah?"

Once out of earshot, John heaved a sigh and shook his head ruefully. He made a note as he turned back toward the scene to never, _ever _let Dexter near any of them without him around to supervise. God only knew what would happen if any of them ever found out the _real_ reason for the moniker.

He was making his way toward the others when his cell phone buzzed. He paused to pull it out and saw that he had a text message.

**COMING TONIGHT? DEX**

His eyebrows jumped. He hastily typed a reply.

**HOW DID YOU GET MY CELL NUMBER? JW**

He wasn't miffed by the fact, just genuinely curious. They hadn't exchanged numbers the night before and his phone wasn't the same one that he'd had when he was in the Army.

**I LIFTED YOUR PHONE LAST NIGHT IN THE ALLEY. DEX**

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. _Just what I need_, he thought wryly. _Another friend who's a bloody pickpocket!_

**WANKER. JW**

Then he lost his smile, biting his lip as he remembered the night before and what the guy named "Z" had said before leaving.

_"Tomorrow night. Bring the supplies."_

His phone buzzed again when he was silent too long for Dexter's liking.

**ARE YOU IN? DEX**

John looked around. He drew in a breath and then, in impulse, shoved the phone back in his pocket without replying.

* * *

It was nearing midnight when he and Sherlock returned back to their flat. Sherlock was wired and full of energy as he always was during a case. He went right to the table where his newest experiment was laid out. John knew it was likely the man would be up all night tinkering and thinking.

Normally, John joined him in the sitting room after a case when they were both too keyed up to settle in for the night. Sherlock would fiddle with his beakers and chemicals and John would watch mindless telly or surf the internet until he felt his eyes droop.

But that night, he went straight up to his room and sat on his bed. He dropped his head into his hands.

His phone had buzzed four times during the ride back from the crime scene. He knew without a doubt that it was Dexter and he had forced himself not to look.

_What am I doing? Why am I even thinking about this?_

He was so deep in thought that when his phone rang, he jumped. He reached for it even as his instincts told him to ignore it.

"Hey," Dexter said before he even said anything. "You coming?"

John breathed through his nose. "I-" he said haltingly. "Dex, I don't know. I don't think I should."

There was a brief silence.

"Hang on," Dexter said abruptly.

A moment later, John heard a light _plink_ against his bedroom window. He furrowed his brow.

After a beat, another one. _Plink._

His brow straightened and then he scowled in exasperation. Hurrying to the window, John pushed the curtain back to peer outside.

As he'd suspected, Dexter stood on the sidewalk below the flat staring up at him. The phone was still in position in his hand.

"John."

It was weird, hearing his friend speaking over the line while watching his lips saying the words outside.

"Dexter," John replied, matching the monotone.

Silence.

"Look, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do," Dexter said after a moment. "I just thought, you know, we could reconnect again. Shoot the shit like we used to. We lost so many guys, good friends….in my opinion, it makes seeing another good friend more meaningful."

John pressed his lips together uncertainly. Below him, he saw Dexter shake his head.

"But, you know, like I said," the other man went on. "I'm not going to force you into anything. You want to go our separate ways….that's cool. I enjoyed seeing you."

The thought of the friends he had lost to the war made something sting deep in John's chest. Dexter _was _a good friend, had been his best friend back in the service. He had already lost too many friends in his life. Fate had been kind enough to bring them back into orbit together...he wasn't sure if he'd have the opportunity again.

"Well-wait," he said desperately. He swallowed. "Just….hold on. Stay there."

He hung the phone up and looked out the bedroom door cautiously. Then he eased his way to the stairs and crept down them. He felt ridiculous, like he was fifteen again trying to sneak out of the house past curfew. He opened the front door slowly and closed it quietly behind him.

He strode over to where Dexter still stood. "Hey," he called.

His friend turned toward him. "Hey," he replied, grinning. "Changed your mind? Sweet."

His smile faded when he saw the serious look on John's face.

"Come on, Dex," John said. "Let's just…go somewhere and hang out, huh? Can't we just forget about all this?" He wondered if he sounded as desperate as he thought he did.

Dexter's face twisted into an angry scowl but then changed back so fast that John wondered if he had even seen it.

"Look, let's make a deal, eh?" Dexter said, nodding. "One more time." Seeing John about to protest, he held up a hand. "Come with me **one** more time. If you still aren't comfortable, I won't ask again. We can meet up to 'hang out' for the rest of the time I'm here." He raised his eyebrows enticingly. "What do you say?"

John sucked in his bottom lip. For a moment, the two friends stared at each other in silent standoff.

"I'm not going to help you do anything," John finally said warningly.

Dexter shook his head fast. "No one will ask you to," he said quickly. "Swear it. Hell, you don't even have to **say** anything if you don't want to."

He swallowed. "Alright," he said at last.

His voice wasn't nearly as strong as he wished it could've been.

* * *

Sherlock had just finished measuring the correct measurement of syllic acid into the beaker when his phone rang. Clenching his teeth in frustration, he carefully held the beaker in one hand and reached across the table with the other. He lifted the phone up to see the ID screen.

**MYCROFT HOLMES **

He sneered and pressed Ignore. He slid the phone across the table and went back to his task.

The phone rang again. He ignored it.

It rang a third time. He ignored it.

A text message alert chimed.

He ignored it.

* * *

Pursing his lips angrily, Mycroft put the phone down. He looked down at the photographs currently spread across his desk and sighed.

He would give his brother until the morning. If Sherlock didn't respond to him by then, he would have to make a house call.

* * *

John was startled when Dexter whistled for a cab once they got a few blocks away. He eyed his friend nervously as the car approached.

"Uh-Dex…" he began.

Before he could say anything else, Dexter held up a hand with a knowing look. "Relax," he said, grinning in amusement at his apprehensive expression. "You really think I'd call a fucking **cab **to take us where we're going? What kind of moron do you think I am?" When John's face didn't change, Dexter rolled his eyes. "Pit stop first."

As they climbed into the cab, Dexter gave the driver the address of the area of the building they had met the others in the day before. They walked quickly once they were out of the car. This time John barely missed a beat when they reached the building, sparing perhaps a half-second to glance around him as he mounted the ladder on Dexter's heels.

By the time John ducked inside the window, Dexter had disappeared from sight somewhere within the space. John looked around for a moment, noting that no one else appeared to be there, until Dexter came back in carrying a bundle of clothing.

He tossed it at John. "Put this on," he ordered. "Hurry up." John held out the items in his hands. A dark hooded sweatshirt and a pair of dark blue jeans. He looked at his friend incredulously but Dexter just waved at him impatiently before he could say anything. "I've done this before, John. You haven't. Just do it."

Looking at Dexter long-sufferingly, John nevertheless took off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Should've told me we were going to play dress-up," he grumbled as he pulled on the sweatshirt. "I would've brought my tiara."

Dexter just rolled his eyes. "You're likely to get picked off by some teenaged shithead with a stolen pistol in ten seconds if you don't blend in," he said as if John were the biggest moron on the planet. He poked at John's discarded plaid shirt with the toe of his boot. "You'll stick out like a sore thumb if I let you out there in this."

"What the **hell**, man?" John suddenly burst out, affronted. He had stripped while Dexter was speaking and had now discovered that the borrowed jeans were about three sizes too large and cascaded over his feet. He jumped up and down in attempt to get them to come up so that he wasn't stepping on the hem but couldn't hold them up at the same time. "Jesus! Who the hell **wears** these?"

"Shut your yap, you pansy," Dexter said with an amused grin. He quickly began unbuckling his belt. "My bad. I forgot how much of a short assed shit you are compared to the rest of the world."

He threw his belt in John's direction and then began toeing off his shoes. John was glaring at him as he wound the belt around his own waist.

"Here, take these, too," Dexter continued, stepping out of the work boot. "They'll give you some height so you won't go falling on your face the second you walk."

He went back to the room he had first disappeared into while John made work of the boots as well. He still ended up having the roll the legs of the jeans up a few times before they would fall comfortably but at least Dexter wore the same size shoe so he wouldn't go tripping onto his ass.

"Alright." Dexter came back wearing another pair of boots. He eyed John's getup and grinned. "Ready for the ball, Princess?"

John made an obscene gesture with his fingers in response as they went back out the window.

* * *

Dexter led John through the East End and down to the seedier parts of the city in silence. For his part, John wasn't feeling particularly like talking anyway. He felt strange and out of place in the loaned clothes and didn't like the way his stomach was twisting with every passing minute he continued walking.

Without warning, Dexter stopped abruptly at a street corner and John did the same. He looked at Dexter in confusion.

"The guys will meet us here in a minute," his friend said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through a few screens before holding it out for John.

John took it and looked down into a screen image of a man walking down a busy street. It was obvious from the angle that the man hadn't known he was being photographed.

"Tonight's target," Dexter went on, nodding to the phone screen. "Kurt Engle. Raped three women and never got caught." A look that John had never seen before came into Dexter's eyes. "Time's up tonight, fucker."

The sound of footsteps approaching alerted John and he whipped his head around fast.

Dexter looked at him strangely. "Relax, it's just the guys," he said. He shook his head and held his fist out for them to bump in greeting.

John immediately saw the contempt come over all of their faces at the sight of him. They were all dressed in dark colors similar to the outfit he wore.

The man who John hadn't gotten the name of sneered at him. "What's **he** doing here?" he asked in disgust.

John bristled at the man's tone, unconsciously straightening as tall as he could and sneering back. Dexter glanced at John warningly.

"Chill," he said. John wasn't sure who exactly Dexter was addressing. "I told you…he's cool."

"I don't care who the hell he is," "Z" cut in. He turned his own steely glare to John. "He better not fuck up our game, that's all I've got to say."

Dexter held out a hand reassuringly. "He's only watching tonight," he said. "And he's good for keeping his mouth shut, don't worry. This is my boy!"

He grinned at John and punched his shoulder in camaraderie. John forced a smile back.

"He'd better," "Z" muttered.

Dexter held out his phone again. "Alright," he said. "We got our target."

The other men began pulling out their own electronic devices. All of them showed the same picture John had seen on Dexter's phone.

John's stomach flipped again.

"He should be coming out of that door," Dexter went on, pointing a few blocks up, "in approximately two minutes, thirty seconds." He put his phone away and looked at the other three men. "'Z', you want first dibs on this one?"

"Fuck yeah," "Z" said.

Dexter looked at John. "He hates rapists more than anybody else," he explained. "He always does the best job on them."

His tone was conversational and to John, the whole thing felt surreal.

"So, 'Z', you take the lead," Dexter said. "Chad, you be back up. John and I will be your periphery. Sound good?"

Nods all around.

'Z' was rubbing his hands together like he was anticipating something good. "Yeah, yeah," he was muttering to himself. "We got you, fucker. You're dead. You're fucking dead, yeah."

"Hey, hey." Dexter's voice was intense. "Show time, boys."

The door had opened. John could see even in the shadows that the man walking out was the one they were after.

An eerie calm silence fell then. "Z" began walking toward the sidewalk parallel to the man and Chad went down the one the man was on. Dexter nodded at John, gesturing for him to follow as he began jogging down the road between the sidewalks.

They went a few blocks quietly before Dexter stopped and crouched down next to some shrubbery by the curb. He put his finger to his lips and gestured for John to do the same. John got down and watched.

"Z" had cut across the street and was now approaching the man in the opposite direction on the sidewalk. A few yards down, Chad was coming up behind the man.

John could feel his hands tingling and his heart pumping with adrenaline.

It happened quickly and almost professionally. When Chad caught up to the man, almost on his heels, "Z" covered the distance from the front. He got in the man's path, pulled out a knife, and jammed it directly through the man's throat. John actually **saw** the knife poke out through the back of his neck.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, unable to help it.

Dexter elbowed him hard and hissed at him to shut up. John swallowed, watching with glowing eyes as Chad caught the man when he slumped backward. "Z" pulled the knife back out and Chad dragged the man out of sight.

Looking around, Dexter got up. "Come on."

They broke into a full sprint then, all the way to the end of the next corner before stopping. John slumped against the wall, panting.

"Wow," he gasped. "Did you **see **that?" He gulped in a breath. "Jesus…that **aim**-!" He mimed the action of 'Z''s knife.

He was grinning wildly and not even realizing it.

"Sick, right?" Dexter said gleefully, smiling too. "I told you. 'Z' is the best."

John shook his head distractedly. For a few moments, the two of them caught their breath. Then the inevitable awkwardness fell. They looked at each other.

Dexter raised his eyebrows. "So,"" he said. "That's not the only one we've got tonight." He grinned. "Want to see some more?"

Déjà vu slammed into him and his heart did the same leap.

_"Oh, God, yes."_

John nodded.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he found three missed calls from his brother on his phone. When he opened it up, a text message was there as well.

**I'M COMING OVER IN THE MORNING. WE HAVE TO TALK. MH**

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. He groaned.

"Don't answer it, Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted, knowing it was futile as Mycroft would just let himself in if no one came.

The landlady either didn't hear him or didn't care because he heard her open the door a moment later and greet his brother warmly. Hearing Mycroft respond in kind made his lips curl with disdain.

"Ah, Mycroft," he said sarcastically when his brother walked into the sitting room. "What an unpleasant surprise."

He moved into the kitchen and opened a bag of bread. He jammed two pieces into the toaster.

Mycroft eyed the rooms with the same look of disapproval that he always did whenever given the opportunity to see how his brother lived.

"Is Dr. Watson here?" he asked.

Too impatient to wait for the complete toasting cycle, Sherlock jammed the lever up and took the two pieces of bread out.

"Don't you have anything better to do than to harass me?" he asked as he walked back out into the sitting room. He stuffed a piece of toast rudely into his mouth as he looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft's face was serious. He didn't even react. "Where is Dr. Watson, Sherlock?"

"Don't deflect," Sherlock said smugly, swallowing. "I know perfectly well that you're here to get me to agree to some convoluted, God-awful assignment from one of your 'clients' because you can't be bothered yourself-"

"**Sherlock**." Mycroft cut him off. His voice was hard. "Where. Is. Dr. **Watson**?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes angrily at being interrupted. He shoved another piece of toast in his mouth. "At work," he replied testily, "or at least **assume **so, as most people are at this hour of the day." He continued speaking in the middle of another bite. "Hard as it may be to believe, I don't actually make a habit of having a GPS tracker on the man who shares my lodgings."

Mycroft's mouth tightened into a thin line. "Perhaps," he said grimly, reaching into his suit jacket, "maybe you should."

He pulled out a piece of paper and set it down on the table beside where they stood facing each other.

Sherlock stared at it in transfixed fascination, setting the plate down almost as an afterthought.

"My head of Security discovered it yesterday," Mycroft went on quietly. "It was taken two days ago from our cameras on Abbotsleigh Road."

Sherlock didn't say anything. His entire focus remained trained on the photograph.

It was a close up of two men standing next to the body of a third with blood pooled underneath it, one of the two men holding a knife. He recognized the other even with the face half-shadowed and slightly grainy in quality.

"That's John, Sherlock," Mycroft said needlessly.

Sherlock still didn't speak. His mind was whirling and his brows had knit tightly together. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, waiting for his brother to say something, but still received no response.

Mycroft sighed through his nose. "So it looks like," he went on, "we have a big problem."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)**

** So, so sorry that this last chapter took so long! I hope it's worth it!**

Drunk and delirious with adrenaline, John had watched them eliminate three more "targets" in the hours before dawn before going back with Dexter to the building that had started feeling oddly familiar to him now. He didn't hesitate to stumble to the nearest couch once he was inside the apartment. He stayed conscious long enough to toe off the borrowed boots and then passed out hard.

He slept like a log well into the next morning until a muffled ringing penetrated his oblivion. He started awake and blinked in confusion at an unfamiliar room that wasn't his. Two seconds later, his brain kicked in and he dove across the room, fumbling into the pocket of his jeans.

He blanched when he saw the time on the face of his phone as he pulled it out. "Shit!" he cursed before answering it. He was supposed to have been at work almost three hours ago.

His boss was on the other end sounding livid. John apologized profusely as he snatched up his clothes from where he had tossed them the night before, hopping around with the phone in one hand as he tried to change into them quickly.

He promised he was on his way and then threw the phone down. He cursed again as he slipped his shoes on.

"You know," a voice said from the other side of the room, "a scene like this only happens the morning after a guy gets laid." John spared a quick glanced over at where Dexter stood against the kitchen counter with his folded, grinning. "Good thing no else is here….might get the wrong idea about us."

"Shut up," John groused, but it held no real force behind it. "Just shut up." He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and sent a light glare in his friend's direction. "This is your fault, you know. My boss is pissed. He's probably going to make me give flu shots all day. Or enemas. That's **if** I don't get fired."

Dexter snickered. "Hey, don't blame me," he said, holding out his hands. "You were the one out here snoring like a bloody freight liner. I couldn't have woken you up even if I wanted to. I probably would've burst an ear drum."

John scoffed as he hurried over to the window. "I don't snore," he said defensively as he scurried down the fire escape ladder.

He disappeared from sight before Dexter could reply. Then after a second, Dexter heard his voice yell up toward him.

"And why the hell don't we use bloody **doors** in this place?"

Dexter burst out laughing.

* * *

Sherlock sent his brother away with an unusually angry snappishness when Mycroft commented that he would have no choice but to show the picture to Scotland Yard if a case was ever created.

It made Sherlock so mad that he almost saw spots. He had seen his brother manipulate the leaders of other _countries_ if he wanted something…and yet Mycroft didn't even hesitate to suggest throwing the one person Sherlock considered a close friend under the bus.

He studied the photograph in front of him hard. Mycroft had tried to take it back with him, but Sherlock had refused to let it go. Not that it mattered. He knew without question that his brother would have copies.

It _was _John in the photograph. He recognized the clothes his flatmate was wearing as well. It was what he had been wearing the evening that Lestrade had come by to invite them out to the pub for Donavan's birthday.

He thought back. He had heard John come home around midnight and go straight upstairs to his room where, he'd assumed, the man had gone to bed. Sherlock had been up until dawn with his experiment and would have heard if John had left again after going upstairs…for an ex-soldier, his flatmate was still amazingly noisy coming and going without realizing it. So whatever had happened, it had taken place in the time between John leaving the pub and coming back to the flat.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

_John Watson_, he thought, **_Doctor_**_ John Watson…the man who shot a murderer through a window for me and threatened to kill another man for me….the man with the most annoying bloody moral compass I've ever encountered, was involved in a __**murder**__ and then strolled home without a word to me about any of it? _

He shook his head. The idea was ludicrous. John was a lot of things, but he definitely wasn't good at lying and keeping things to himself. He was given an **ASBO**, for God's sake, because he couldn't convince a community services officer that he hadn't been spray painting a public building even though Sherlock had seen **kids **able to lie to them. And then he had come home and told Sherlock every last bloody detail of being held by a custody sergeant.

There was no way that John would have been able to keep something as big as murder a secret from him. Sherlock would have known within two seconds of looking at him. John wore an adrenaline rush as openly as some people wore bad cologne.

Now that he thought about it, Sherlock realized that hearing John go straight upstairs after returning that night was out of character too. They certainly weren't joined at the hip, but John always made a point to at least poke his head in before going to bed every night. He always joked that it was for insurance if nothing else because, living with Sherlock Holmes, one could never be sure when an alibi might be needed for either of them.

_So he had to have done it on purpose. He didn't want me to see him because he didn't want me to know anything had happened._

That had to mean that whatever had happened was bad enough for John to fear or at least be anxious about someone finding out.

Sherlock kept looking at the photo. He didn't recognize the man with the knife or the dead man. Possible theories ran through his mind, none of which he particularly found comforting.

_John was about to be a victim of a mugging or some sort of violence from the dead man. A stranger saw it and intervened, killing the man to protect John. _

Sherlock shook his head. If that were the case…why did the man on the ground have no defensive wounds on him? John knew how to handle himself even when the assailant was bigger than he was. There was no way a person could attack him without John at least attempting to put up a fight.

Plus, John and the other man were standing behind the attacker. The attacker wouldn't have been in front of John and with that amount of blood, they couldn't have moved behind the body without at least a little bit getting into their footprint or onto their shoes. Yet there was neither visible in the picture.

_John was attacked by the man with the knife. Another man saw it and tried to intervene. The man with the knife killed him._

Again, he shook his head. John could easily outmaneuver someone with a knife even when unarmed himself. Sherlock had seen it firsthand. But then why would they just be **standing** there like that? If John had just avoided being stabbed, he would have taken the man down and held him there for the police to apprehend.

That only left one other possibility and it was the one that made Sherlock the most uneasy.

_John was there against his will. One of the two men threatened him somehow to force him not to act and then not to talk after the one with the knife killed the other one. _

Sherlock couldn't deny the protective instinct that rose at the thought. For someone to make John feel threatened enough not to even talk to **him**, it had to been something with big consequences.

_Probably threatened someone else's life_, Sherlock thought at bit sourly. Not sour at John, but at the man's frustrating tendency to value the safety of others before his own.

He sat back and steepled his fingers in thought. His mind was made up even if Mycroft tried everything possible to change it. John was no murderer. John was his **friend. **Something was going on that was endangering him and Sherlock would be damned if he didn't do something about it.

* * *

John did his best to slip into the clinic unnoticed, but his boss was having none of it. He called John into his office and proceeded to give him a stern speech about workplace policy, fairness to others, and self-respect that made John's ears turn red with embarrassment.

Then, as suspected, he saddled John with the duty of updating the charts from the night shift and refilling all of the empty syringe holders before he was allowed to start seeing any patients.

The hours until his lunch break seemed to drag and by the time it came, John still had yet to see anyone. He relished the chance to escape for a little while and decided to go into town to pick up something to eat rather than eat at his desk like usual.

Dexter called him as he was approaching a restaurant. John could tell right away that something was unusual by the low hum of excitement in his friend's voice when he answered.

"Got a fresh one," was the first thing the other man said when John picked up. "Like a fucking gift from God, man, shit!"

"What are you **talking** about?" John asked in slight exasperation. He was hungry and now had to pause from his momentum into the building so he could hear.

"'Z''s been talking about this scumbag that got away from him for **years** practically, the only one that ever did," Dexter said intensely. "He just got word from one of his contacts that the fucker is in Lambeth right this very minute working on some construction site." He chuckled. "Like a fucking sitting duck, man."

John's eyebrows shot up. _Contacts_?

"We're heading out there in ten minutes," Dexter went on. "You're in, right?"

He hesitated for a brief moment.

He thought about going back to the clinic. Doing more paperwork. Listening to his boss bitch about the time that was wasted by his tardiness that morning. Maybe getting to see one patient before he left.

Then he thought about the adrenaline rush. The feeling of his stomach churning with excitement and nervousness at the same time. Seeing actual, raw justice played out before his eyes.

_Screw it._ John agreed without another thought. "I'm catching the tube now," he said, turning around. "Where should I meet you?"

Right after Dexter gave him the address John called the clinic and told them he was taking sick leave for the rest of his shift. It occurred to him as he stepped onto the tube that he didn't feel guilty like he usually did whenever he missed work.

He decided not to dwell on that fact.

* * *

The young man sitting on the low wall inside Trafalgar Square nodded subtly as Sherlock walked through the bustling crowds towards him. Sherlock didn't acknowledge him as he stopped near where the man sat. He turned to face the people walking around.

"Scott," he said, continuing to focus his attention to his surroundings.

The young man also kept his gaze casually on the crowd. "Mr. Holmes," he replied.

Sherlock waited a beat, pulling his phone from his pocket and scrolling through his messages. "Need a favor," he said, keeping his eyes on the screen.

Scott nodded. He yawned. "Sure," he said as he stretched his arms over his head.

Taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket, Sherlock moved closer to the young man. He opened it up and held it out. Scott took it.

The paper contained a scan of the photograph that Mycroft had brought to him that morning. He had cut John out of the photo and enlarged it so that both the dead man and the man with John were clear.

"I need to know anything you can find out about either one of these men," he said.

Scott studied the photo. "This for a case?"

"Personal interest," he replied. "And it's urgent, Scott."

The young man nodded. "I'll ask around," he said. "See what I can find out."

Sherlock nodded. "Thanks," he said.

He moved away from the wall.

* * *

It was nearing dusk when John and the others returned from the construction site. John was still pumped full of crazed glee and could hardly keep still in his seat.

Dexter had told him while they had been preparing for the job that the man they were after had murdered an entire family of five, including three children, by pretending to need help with his car on the side of a road. Then the man had apparently eluded a conviction because of a technicality from the arresting officer.

Dexter and Chad had both handled that one, performing the most amazing combination of knife handling and martial arts that John had ever seen in his entire life. He hadn't stopped talking about it for the entire ride back. They were in "Z"'s truck, nearing the city.

"Seriously," he persisted for what seemed like the thousandth time. "You have to teach me that, Dex, seriously! That was fucking awesome!"

Dexter gave him a tolerant smile. But John was startled when Chad whipped around in the front seat and glared at him.

"Look, will you shut up?" he snapped. "Jesus."

John furrowed his brow testily. But before he could say anything, Dexter spoke up.

"Hey, man," he said angrily. "What's your problem?"

"I'm sick of this little shit acting like we're having some Boy Scout adventure!" Chad exploded hotly. His expression aimed at John looked like he was trying to burn out John's eyes. "It was a bad idea to let him see anything, it was a bad idea let him along go with us the first time, and it's a **bad **idea to keep letting him!"

John beat Dexter to a reply. "You know what?" he said testily. "Fuck you, dude. **'Z.'** Whatever the fuck your fucking name is. Just stop the damn truck and let me out here. I'd rather walk than listen to your opinions anymore."

He wrenched open the passenger door, forcing the man to stop the vehicle. Glaring one more time at "Z", John turned to Dexter. "Sorry, Dex" he said sincerely. "Call me later or something."

He got out and slammed the door shut. The truck peeled away in a flash. John shook his head and got out his mobile to call for a taxi. He wasn't that far from home anyway.

* * *

Sherlock was beyond frustrated. Even with his best local snoops, by the end of the day he still had absolutely no idea who either of the men in the picture with John was.

And then, just when he'd thought his sour attitude couldn't have gotten worse, he had arrived back at the flat to find Lestrade waiting for him in the sitting room.

Lying across his knees was a larger copy of the photograph Sherlock had gotten from Mycroft.

His eyes showed his rage before the DI even opened his mouth. He was going to **murder** Mycroft.

"Now, look, Sherlock," Lestrade began, trying to forestall the inevitable explosion. "I'm not trying to-"

"Not trying to what?" he challenged. "Not trying to tell me you bowed to my brother like a brain-dead underling to something that's not any of his or your business?"

"Are you **kidding **me?" Lestrade echoed incredulously. He got to his feet angrily and snatched up the photo. "Actually, Sherlock, I was **going **to say that I'm not trying to accuse you of purposely withholding evidence from Scotland Yard because you might not have seen this photo, but clearly I was wrong about that."

For once, Sherlock was caught by surprise. The DI looked at him angrily and shook his head.

"Your brother never told me you knew anything about this," he went. "And your brother may be the 'British Government-'" He repeated Sherlock's words sarcastically, making quotation marks with his fingers. "But he's not an idiot. Even he knows that something like this has to be made known to the police. It's a dead body, for God's sake."

Sherlock was looking at him almost hatefully. Lestrade was genuinely startled by that.

"That's **not** what it is," Sherlock said coldly. He snatched the photograph from and stabbed at it with his index finger. "It's something wrong, something horribly wrong, because Doctor John Watson would sooner be shot than just stand staring in front of someone who was down." His lips curled angrily. "As a matter a fact, he **was** shot during the heart of a damn war because he wouldn't leave someone who was down."

A look of consternation crossed Lestrade's face before he could stop it. Sherlock took the opportunity to keep going strong.

"You don't know the circumstances behind this," he said. "So don't think you're going to come in here making accusations."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that **you** know the circumstances behind this, then?"

The detective shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't need to." He glared when the DI scoffed. "I don't need to. I know John."

Lestrade shook his head regretfully. "I wish that was enough," he said. Seeing Sherlock's angry look, he held up a hand. "Look, cut me a break, would you? I know how to do my job, Sherlock. I'm going to talk to John and then take it from there."

He moved toward the door.

"Tell him to call me when he gets in," he went on. "If he doesn't…I'll have to come back. And I might not be able to be so understanding."

He left before Sherlock could reply. Sherlock looked at the photograph in his hand again.

Clenching his teeth, he crumpled it up and then sat in his armchair. He steepled his fingers.

_Think. __**Think**__._

* * *

The short walk and accompanying cab ride back to the flat did little to alleviate John's anger. He took the steps two at a time and unlocked the front door more roughly than necessary.

Sherlock looked up when he heard the door slam. He watched John rush up the stairs and go past the sitting room without even glancing his way.

"John," he called out before he could stop himself.

His friend jumped violently.

"Oh-hey," John said awkwardly. He stopped in the doorway but didn't come further into the room. "Sorry…didn't know you were there."

Sherlock looked him over. John appeared frazzled and stressed.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

It sounded awkward even to his ears. He knew John thought so as well by the look that came on his face. Sherlock rarely ever asked such inane questions.

John stared at him for a moment. He looked conflicted, like he wanted to say something, but then his expression became blank again.

"Rough day," he said sardonically. He rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh. "I just need a good night's sleep."

Sherlock nodded. Lestrade's warning was ringing in his mind but he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

"Goodnight, then," he finally said.

John nodded. "Goodnight," he replied quietly.

He continued on up the stairs. Sherlock listened to the bedroom door shut and heard the mattress springs squeak as John sat down.

* * *

John tossed and turned for the better part of two hours. He couldn't relax. The moon was shining directly into his window. He threw an arm over his eyes trying to block it out and it did nothing. He listened for noises of Sherlock downstairs and didn't hear any.

At least one of them was getting to sleep.

His phone chimed to alert him of a text message. He rolled over and picked the phone up from the nightstand.

**MEET ME IN EAST END. NEED TO TALK TO YOU. IMPORTANT. DEX.**

He was up and grabbing clothes before he thought about it. He was about to slip a shirt on when he thought better of it and slipped back out of his trousers.

He reached under the bed and pulled out the jeans and sweatshirt Dexter had loaned him earlier. He shrugged them on and carried the boots in his hand so that his feet wouldn't make noise when he crept downstairs.

He walked hurriedly, almost jogging. He made his mind up that he was going to tell his friend that it was over. He couldn't be a part of it anymore. It was too stressful. He would do his best to convince Dexter to get away from it too.

He saw the other man waiting on the corner as soon as he crossed the street.

"Hey," he greeted Dexter as he approached. "Listen, Dex. I really think we need to-"

The man turned around while he was speaking and John realized two things instantly. One, that the man was not Dexter. It was Chad.

And two….he was aiming a very large knife directly at John's midsection.

"Holy-!" John yelped. He leaped back to avoid the blade just in time. "What the hell-?"

Chad didn't say anything. He just leveled a steely glare at John and advanced with the knife. John swallowed hard and got into a defensive stance.

There was murder in Chad's eyes. John knew what that looked like and he was going to have to fight for his life.

When the other man tried to swipe at him again, John grabbed his arm and twisted. He was relieved when he felt the bone pop. But instead of dropping the knife like he was expecting, Chad just switched it to the other hand and kept right on coming.

_Fuck! _John thought as he leapt to avoid another jab of the blade.

He wasn't fast enough. The knife slashed through the arm of his sweatshirt. He yelled out in pain and desperately tried to grab for Chad's knife hand. He managed to grasp the other man's wrist. They struggled for control but John managed to snatch the weapon.

"Hey, what's going on here?"

An unfamiliar voice behind him and the feeling of another person coming up on his back made John lash out instinctively. He whirled around, slashing the person with the knife defensively.

And then watched in horror as a total stranger, eyes wide with terror, put both hands desperately up to the wound in his neck that John had just made. He fell to the ground as the life blood poured out onto the concrete.

John dropped the knife like it burned his hand. He felt himself starting to wheeze.

"Oh, God," he gasped. He moved to kneel beside the man but could already see the man was dead. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God."

Without thinking about it, he took off. His hands were shaking as he ran as fast as he could.

* * *

Sherlock watched John check the windows again like he was expecting something to come through them at any moment.

"John-"

John didn't appear to have heard him. He was pacing frantically back and forth, his hands fisted in his hair anxiously.

"John." He tried again in a sterner voice.

John was almost wheezing. "Christ," he said. "Christ!" He sounded seconds away from a panic attack.

Clenching his teeth in frustration, Sherlock strode through the middle of the path his friend was weaving back and forth and forced him still by gripping both arms firmly.

"John!" he practically yelled.

John jumped, startled, and brought dazed eyes up to meet Sherlock's penetrating stare. Sherlock stared at him unwavering but quickly softened his hold without letting go completely.

"Calm down," he went on firmly. He raised his eyebrows, trying to make his friend focus. "Listen to me. We can't fix anything until you get hold of yourself." In spite of himself, John found himself matching his friend's breathing and slowing his own. Sherlock nodded approvingly. "I'll help you. Just tell me what's going on."

John blew out a shaky breath as Sherlock moved out of his personal space. His friend sat down in his chair and looked at him encouragingly.

That was all it took. John found himself spilling. He told Sherlock everything-about Dexter and their old friendship, about the secret meetings and things John had seen and heard, about the people he'd watched being killed. His voice shook when he told him about what had just happened.

"I didn't know who it was," he said frantically. "Sherlock, I swear to **God**…Chad wad trying to stab me and I was trying to keep the knife away and the guy just came up behind me." He started wheezing again. "I thought-I thought he was-"

In a move that surprised both of them, Sherlock got back up and placed both his hands on the backs of John's shoulders.

"John, I know," he said with conviction. "You were defending yourself. It's alright. It was an accident." Feeling John slump under his touch almost undid him. "It's going to be alright."

John laughed almost hysterically. "How can you say that?" he said, turning back around to face the detective. "No matter how you put it….I'm **fucked**!" Unable to keep still, he resumed pacing again. "I'm either going to get locked up for being an accomplice to murder or fried for murdering someone myself! And that's **if **Chad and the others don't gut me on the street corner like a stuck pig first!"

He groaned, feeling ill. "Oh, Christ," he repeated. "Christ, I'm fucked."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "John, none of those options are going to happen." He stood tall to make himself seem even more convicting. "What **is **going to happen is this."

He started pacing too, unable to help it as he unraveled his plans.

"We're going to go to Lestrade right now," he went on. "We're going to go after Chad and the others and then you can tell him everything you just told me. We're going to fix this, John. I promise." He looked at the other man meaningfully. "I won't let you go down for this."

John couldn't speak, so touched by Sherlock's words that he was momentarily frozen. He forced himself to snap out of it.

"Alright," he agreed. He moved toward the door again. "You go now to find Lestrade. I'll text Dexter, have him and the others meet me at their place and then you can have the Yard come there. We'll be able to get them all at once."

Sherlock was already texting the DI.

"Mm-hmm," he said, barely listening. "Fine."

John nodded. He took the stairs two at a time toward the front door.

* * *

Chad heaved himself up through the window of the apartment.

"Got a problem," he said warningly the moment his feet hit the floor. The others, standing around the kitchen, looked at him. Dexter was texting on his phone. Chad glared at him. "Your little shit friend just flipped out and knifed some stranger. He's probably on his way to the cops right now. We need to go. Now."

"No," Dexter said, not looking up from his texting. "He isn't." He held the phone out with a raised eyebrow. "He's on his way here. Wants to meet me."

Chad shook his head. "He's probably bringing cops with him."

Dexter grinned viciously. "No, he isn't," he repeated. "I know Watson. He's loyal. Too loyal." His eyes narrowed. "Even if he's bringing the cops, he'll be here by himself first. He'll give me the benefit of the doubt."

He looked at the others.

"Get the stuff ready now," he went on. "We should have just enough time."

* * *

Lestrade's head shot up from the computer he was looking at when the door to the office banged open loudly. Sherlock strode in already talking.

"John was set up," the detective said. "He's got them all together. We have to go now before they run."

"I know, Sherlock," the DI said. "And we've got a problem."

Sherlock wasn't listening. "I've got the address. We've got to **go, **now."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said, louder. "You're not listening to me…I **know** he was set up."

That caught the detective unaware. "What do you mean?"

Standing, Lestrade moved away from the computer so that the monitor was visible. Sherlock immediately recognized the picture on the screen.

"Dexter Benjamin," the DI said needlessly, reading the screen. "I didn't think to run his name until your brother showed me the picture." He scrolled down so that Sherlock could read the fact sheet he had pulled up. "Honorable Discharge from the British Army a year and a half ago. Got kicked out of a pub one night shortly after getting home after a brawl and for some reason ended up stopping on the side of the road. A family of five stopped to see if he needed help and he flipped out, murdered all of them."

Sherlock felt like he was about to be sick.

"That's what he told John," he said. He couldn't hide the shock he felt. "He told John…they were going after a man who had done that."

Lestrade shook his head. He clicked the mouse to show another picture of a different man.

"Chad Sidens," he went on. "Convicted rapist of three women. Out on parole."

Another photo. "Zeke Simmons…"

Sherlock listened to Lestrade tell him about all five of the men that John had been with. Every single one of them was guilty of the crimes they had been telling John that their "targets" were guilty of.

_They were actually murdering innocent people_.

* * *

John scaled the fire escape ladder and hopped through the window.

"Dex!" he called. The kitchen was empty and so was the television room. Frustrated, he hurried through to the back rooms. "Dexter!"

When he turned back out the first empty bedroom, something slammed into the back of his head. He felt white-hot pain searing through his skull before his vision blackened.

Dexter stared down at the prone body of his former comrade. "Sorry, John," he murmured, pocketing his gun again.

He picked up John's feet and began dragging him back into the room.

* * *

Sherlock knew instinctively that it was going to kill John when he found out.

_John…_

A sudden chill ran through Sherlock's bones.

"I let John go ahead of us," he said with growing horror. "I let John go meet with them…with **all **of them…by himself."

Seeing Lestrade's look of alarm did nothing to assure him.

Turning, Sherlock booked it back out the door. He could hear Lestrade on his heels.

* * *

A sickeningly strong odor brought him out of blackness. John struggled to open his eyes, feeling like his body was weighted down.

Pain exploded behind his eyes and reverberated through his skill. He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again.

He was dimly aware of a soft crackling sound but didn't pay it any attention.

He gingerly opened his eyes again, slower than before. His head still throbbed but at least he could move his lids without wanting to throw up that time.

_What happened? Where am I?_

He was staring at a white ceiling and felt something soft underneath of him. He looked down.

He was lying across a brown bedspread on an unfamiliar bed. He was in an unfamiliar room.

Groaning, he started to roll over. He immediately realized his left hand was ratcheted above his head with a handcuff attached to the headboard. As he tugged on it, he felt another resistance from his foot. His left foot was similarly restrained.

He wasn't sure if it was because of the wooziness, the disorientation, or just plain ignorance on his part. But it didn't hit him until a few moments after becoming aware of his position that the odor he was smelling was smoke. The room was filling with it. Thick, black, choking smoke.

And the wall next to the bed….was on fire.

His panic reflex surged into hyper drive.

"Shit," he gasped. "**Shit**!"

He frantically began twisting his wrist in the metal cuff. His lungs began to itch horribly and he coughed hard. It hurt his chest.

He realized if he didn't get out in the next few seconds, he was dead. It propelled him to pull out all the stops. Without pausing to reconsider, he positioned his arm as best his could and then took a deep breath to steel himself.

Then he broke his own hand. He couldn't keep the pained scream inside.

* * *

The sight of smoke seeping out from the back window of the building John had told him they were meeting in made Sherlock's blood freeze.

"God," Lestrade breathed as they pulled to a stop. He immediately began ringing the fire brigade. "Sherlock-" The detective had opened the door and vaulted out before he finished speaking. "Sherlock!"

The detective felt like he was in a dream, like he couldn't focus on anything except the sight of that smoke. He pounced on the fire escape and scrambled up to the top.

Down below, he could hear officers yelling at him. He paid them no attention.

* * *

Blinking back tears of pain and irritation from the smoke, John pulled his broken fingers through the handcuff. He choked, struggling to breathe in as he fumbled for the cuff on his foot.

His vision was going dim and he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs. He desperately gripped his ankle with his good hand, trying to position it so he could break the bones in his foot.

His hand was shaking and the first twist didn't work. He screamed in agony when he wrenched his toes in the wrong direction and then began coughing violently.

_Please don't let me die, please don't let me die, please don't let me die-_

He begged desperately to whatever God was listening as he forced himself to try again. He was getting weaker by the second.

A more intense pain made him nearly immobile. He struggled to slip his foot through the cuff and then fell right off the bed, unable to brace himself with his weak muscles and blurring vision.

He couldn't die like this. He couldn't die like this.

He feebly attempted to crawl toward the door using one knee and elbow. He couldn't stop coughing by that point, each strong heave shaking his frame. He felt himself growing weaker by the second.

_Give up. Just give up_.

He wasn't making any progress. He was never going to make it to the door. John gagged and then sobbed, sinking to the ground in defeat.

Then suddenly someone was next to him. John's eyes were bulging in his struggle to breathe. He tried to hook his fingers onto the person's jeans, beg for air.

Then he was being lifted, settled firmly against a flat chest. He had enough of his senses left to cling on to the person with his hand before he felt himself fading.

* * *

Sherlock had flown through the empty apartment, calling John's name frantically, before he caught sight of the smoke billowing from behind the door of a back bedroom. He had wrenched the door open and nearly been bowled over from the smoke.

Then he had seen the prone form of John on the floor near the door. He nearly tripped in his haste to get to him.

John was hardly able to move, struggling to move his fingers toward Sherlock's pants leg. With no time for gentleness, Sherlock stooped and hefted the other man into his arms. John's head lolled against Sherlock's chest as he expelled another choked gasp and hung on to his neck weakly.

Sherlock wasn't a man for trivial platitudes, but found himself reassuring his friend as he hurried back toward the front window like it was natural.

"I've got you, John," he said, straining to move faster. "I've got you, it's ok."

Then suddenly he stopped short. Dexter stood in front of him. A duffle bag was in one hand, a gun was in the other.

"Dexter," Sherlock said coldly, shifting John's weight carefully. He stood still, listening as crackling fire got louder behind them. He swept over Dexter's form appraisingly. "You're making your getaway. The others have already gone…you stayed behind to make certain John couldn't escape and you're making yours as well."

Dexter said nothing. He kept the gun pointed directly at Sherlock, and by default, John.

"John trusted you," Sherlock went on, narrowing his eyes. "He trusted you and you played him like it was nothing." He glared at Dexter hatefully. "That's the difference between us." His lips curled into a cold smirk. "I don't trust you. And I don't play. If you want him dead, you have to go through me."

Dexter took in the appearance of John, barely breathing and struggling for consciousness in the arms of the man standing before him. He swallowed.

"He never did know how to stop being loyal to people," he finally said. "I always told him it was going to bite him in the ass."

John gasped painfully and made a weak noise. Sherlock didn't risk looking down at him but couldn't help cradling him closer.

Dexter shook his head and lowered his gun. "Get him out of here," he said gruffly.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to knock Dexter out and stomp the shit out of him.

Then John moaned against his chest and he realized he had more important things to worry about. And for the first time, he found himself not caring about cracking the case.

"Hold on, John," he said as he strode past Dexter toward the fire escape. "You'll be alright. Just hold on."

And he would be. Sherlock would make certain of it, even if it meant letting the criminals escape this time. Right then, all he cared about was John's safety.

Because John was his friend. And although Sherlock didn't really want friends, he did want John.

There would be plenty of time to get his revenge. No one messed with John and got away with it. Eventually, Dexter and his friends would learn that lesson.

The hard way. He would see to it.


End file.
